HIS 

Name is Mud. 



A COMEDY 

IN ROUR ACTS 



BY 

/ 

Edward Grimm. 



SAN FRANCISCO: 

James H. Barry, Printer, 429 Montgomery Street. 

1890. 



HIS 



Name is Mud. 



A come;dy 



IN ROUR ACTS. 



BY- 



Edward Grimm, 




SAN FRANCISCO: 
James ?I. Barry, Printer, 429 Montgomery Street. 
1890. . 






Copyright, 1800, m Edwakd Grimm. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 

Mk. Tobin, a wealthy mine owner. 

Mr. Fred Tobin, his nephew. 

Mr. George Hillberth, an architect. 

Mr. Mud, Senior, a garae peddler 

Mr. Mud, Junior, his son. 

Mr. Bun, a trainer and sport. 

Mr. Johx, gardener to Mrs. Roland. 

Mr. Fair weather, a tailor. 

Mrs. Roland, a widow. 

Miss Roland, her daughter. 

Mrs. Collins, a lodging-housekeeper. 

Bridget, servant to Mrs. Collins. 

Lizzie, servant to Mrs. Roland. 

Miss Annie Faifweather. 

Miss Splinter. 

Three Boys, and others. 



HIS NAME IS MUD. 



ACT I. 

SCENP^ I.— .1 Parlor. Enter Mrs, Roland. Miss Roland 
and John. 

Miss Roland. Who could have done such a dastardly 
deed ? 

John. Of course I don't know for certain, but 

Mrs. Roland. Whom do you suspect, John ? 

John. I think it was day before yesterday when I saw 
that second-handed dude sneaking around the rear part 
of the garden. You know, Miss, that loafer who has an- 
noyed you so much, I am almost certain that he threw 
the poison over the fence. Dogs don't agree with fellows 
of his stamp. 

Miss Roland. Oh I shall I never be able to escape 
that hateful wretch! How is it possible? I have not 
been outside of this house since we moved into it. 

Mrs. Roland. Some one who knows us must have 
given the information. Do you think, John, that Lizzie 
has posted him ? 

John. I hardly think so. 

Miss Roland. It must be she who has again betrayed 
our whereabouts. We have changed our butcher, milk- 
man, baker and even our grocer, and, yet, here is that 
ruffian at our door again. It is she and no one else. 
Tell her to come up stairs for a minute. 

Mrs. Roland. You need not tell her of our suspicion. 

John. Certainly not ma'arn. {Exit.) 

Miss Roland. Oh I if I only had a brother who could 
give that miserable scamp a beating that would lay him 
up for a month, I \Yould worship him as ray greatest ben- 
efactor. (Enter Lizzie.) Have vou given any poison to 
the dog ? 

Lizzie. Sure, jMiss, you don't think that I done it ? 

Mrs. Roland. Perhaps you can tell us who has done it. 

Lizzie. No, ma'am, I can not. 

Miss Roland. Y'ou know the cause why we have 
changed our residence twice within six months. Day be- 



fore yesterday John saw that scoundrel who has nearly 
plagued the life out of me near our place again. Do you 
know the fellow ? 

Lizzie. Faith, I do not, Miss. 

Mis^s Roland, Never spoke to him ? 

Lizzie. Twice he tried to stop me on the street, but I 
took no notice of him. 

Misa Roland, Before we moved into this house I told 
you not to give information to any one in regard to our 
present residence. Have you strictly obeyed the order ? 

Lizzie, I have. (Bell rings). 

Mrs, Roland. Who can that be ? 

Miss . Roland. Wait, Lizzie, I will see who it is, (look- 
ing out of the )ri)idow). Why, mamma, it is your old 
friend, Mr. Tobin. 

Mrs. Roland, Let him in, Lizzie. [Exit Lizzie.) I won- 
der liow he found our address. 

Miss Roland. I sent a note to Mrs. Collins, asking her 
to let Mr, Tobin know where we moved to. 
E liter Tobin. 

Tobin. Good morning, ladies. 

Mrs. Roland. Why, Mr. Tobin, we haven't seen you for 
an age. What has kept you so long in the country? 

Tobin. During my spell of sickness my business has 
been somewhat neglected, and it took me quite a while 
to straighten thiu'^s out. 

Miss Roland. But how is it, Mr. Tobin, that we have 
not had the pleasure to welcome your imported nephew? 
Has he been drowned ? 

Tobin. My lovely miss, at guessing your are not a 
success. 

Miss Roland What sort of an animal is he? Very 
wild, I presume? 

Tobin. I have not seen him yet. Only an hour ago I 
arrived in town, and, as I was informed by Mrs. Collins 
that you had again changed your residence, I took the 
notion to come and see you, 

Mrs. Roland. Your nephew is well, I hope? 

Tobin. I have letters from Mrs. Collins in my pocket, 
in which she informs me that my nephew is quite tame 
and likes his feed. 

Miss Roland. What a monster you must be. He must 
be in the city at least two months. 

Tobin. I am not half so anxious to see him as you 
seem to be. 

Mrs. Roland. Have you heard anything unfavorable 
about him? 



Tobin. No, on the contrary, his landlady quite praises 
him in her letters, but before I decide to have him about 
me I will be certain that his habits and manners are not 
ofiensive to my taste. Should I find him conceited; self- 
ish, dull, lazv or a fool, I shall send him a check for a 
few thousand dollars and advise him to shift for himself 
in the future. 

Miss Roland. Just think, mamma, what a sweet opin- 
ion this nephew must have formed about his uncle by 
this time. 

^frs. Roland. Have you sent him any money ? 

Tohin. bo far, not a' cent. Though I informed Mrs. 
Collins that I would be responsible for his beard and 
lodiring, should he be unable to pay it 

Miss Roland. Then he is not starved ; that is, at 
least, one consolation. 

Mrs. Roland, Has he learned a profession that will 
support him ? 

Tohin. He has some skill in painting, I believe. 

Miss Roland. Our garden fence needs painting badly. 

Tobin. I do not think he would be willing to under- 
take to paint fences, unless they happened to be on 
canvas. 

Miss Roland. Oh, then, he is an artist? 

Tobin. I vouch that he has conceit enough in him 
to make him think so. 

Miss Roland. Do you know, Mr. Tobin, what I would 
like your nephew to be? 

Tobin. A count or a prince, no doubt. 

Miss Roland. If he were a prize-fighter he could make 
himself quite useful to me just now. 

Tobin. A prize-fighter; ha! ha! ha!" 

Miss Roland. For the last six months a big brute of a 
fellow has so annoyed and disgusted me with his atten- 
tions, that I would give almost anything to see him 
whipped. Twice we have changed our residence on his 
account — to get rid of him. I have never, by either look 
or sign, given him the slightest encouragement. On the 
contrary, I have done all I possibly could do to make 
him understand that I loath and despise him, and, yet, 
the wretch persists in bowing and following me wher- 
ever I go. We two lonely women have no one to protect 
us from such vermin, 

[Mud {sen.) outside, Wild game! wild game! wild 
game I wild game!] 
Enter Lizzie. 



6 

Lizzie. The game peddler is outside; Miss, do you 
wisli -any ducks or hares? 

MiHS Roland. How did he find us out ? 

Lizzie. Sure, I don't know. 

Miss Roland. You have not told him ? 

Lizzie. Indeed, I have not. 

Miiis Roland. 1 suspect he is connected in some way 
with that ruffian. Let him come in here for a minute. 
{Exit Lizzie.)- 

Tohin. Have you never called on the police ? 

Mrs. Roland. We do not wish to see our name in the 
})aper8. 

Enter Mud {senior.) 

Mud {sen.) Wild game! wild game! wild game! Fine 
ducks this morning, ladies. Just look at those beauties. 

Miss Roland. How did you come to know that we 
moved into this house? 

Mud {sen,) Oh, that's easy enough, 

Tobin. How? 

Mud {sen). If the milkman doesn't know, the baker 
may know ; if the baker doesn't know, the letter-carrier 
may know ; if the letter-carrier doesn't know the dust 
man may know; somebody is bound to know. 

Miss Roland. Are j'ou married? 

Mud {sell.) I was, but divorces are so cheap now-a- 
days that everybody can afford to get one. 

Miss Roland. You have a son ? 

Mud {sen.) [Aside.] What is she after anyhow? 
[Aloud.] The world is wide and man does know but 
little. 

Tobin. Haven't I seen your face somew^here ? 

Mud {sen.) You see an honest face whenever you see 
mine. No hair grows in the ])alms of my hands. ' 

Tobin. In the rogue's gallery. I am certain. 

Mud (sen.) Shake hands, mv boy. How rogues do 
know each other. 

Tobin. Send the servant after the policeman and see 
if I am not right. 

Mud {sen.) Hope to meet you again where we met be- 
fore; you robbed the bank and 1 watched behind the door. 
[Exit Mud, senior.] 

Mrs. Roland. Don't you think, Mr. Tobin, that we 
ought to consult our lawyer about this affair ? 

Miss. Roland. No, dearest mamma. It would soon 
become the talk all over town. 
Enter Lizzie. 



Lizzie. Oh, Miss Roland, I saw a mam climbing over 
the fence into the garden, jnst now. 

.\fiss Roland. A man ? Where is John? 

Lizzie. He has gone to Mrs. Hurlburt's to look after 
some flowers. 

Tohin. Come, ladies, let us see what the fellow wants. 
This, I think, will protect you from any insults. 

[Exit.] 

SCENE II. — An arbor with a tree close by. 

Enter Mud (jun.) [looking about.] A mighty cosy place. 
I shall enjoy life after all this bother is over. Damned 
stuck-up cieature though. She won't cave, and tries to 
make me believe that I don't suit her fancy. Woman 
tricks, I know, but never mind, my girl, I shall fetch 
you around all right yet, or my name is not Jim Mud. 
Generally comes here at ten to read or sew. Nobody 
will disturb us, and she shall listen to what I have to 
say. The dog is gone. It seems what is "rough on rats" 
is rough on dogs, too. How shall I address her? I must 
sift my speech a little. "I beg your pardon, Miss, for my 
intrusion on sacred ground." Helloa, what's coming 
now ? A whole pic-nic party, led by an old man. Who 
can he be? Hadn't I better go up the tree for awhile and 
wait till he is gone ? [Climbing the tree.] 

Enter Tobin, Mrs. and Miss Roland and Lizzie. 

Mrs. Roland. I see no man about yet. 

Miss Roland. Are you quite sure that you saw him ? 

Lizzie. As sure as I see you now^ I intended to hang 
up some towels to dry, when my eyes caught him just as 
he was leaping over the fence. 

Tobin. Hush! He is up in the tree, Lizzie, run and 
turn on the water, we will give him a shower bath to 
begin with. [ Taking the hose and playing Mud junior with 
water.] Your gardener hasn't watered this tree for quite 
awhile, it is full of insects, Mrs, Roland. I hate bugs, 
especially bed-bugs. They say that sulphuric acid does 
not agree with them. A quart of it would come very 
handy just now\ I advise you to keep some on hand and 
make good use of it. 
Enter John. 

Miss Roland, I shall take your advice, Mr. Tobin. 

Tobin. Gardener, quick, get the pitch-fork, and pitch 
into that monkey as soon as he comes down. 

John. 1 will, by Jove. 

[Mud junior jumps off the tree and disappears over the 
fence.] 



Tohin. There he runs. Quick, gardener, pitch into 
him. [Curtain doicn.] 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — A furnished room vntli an easel in the center. 
Enter Bridget. 

Bridget. That's a nice way for a young fellow to fool 
the time away with, painting the clouds and mountains, 
cows and bare-legged children. Fine country it must be 
where they can't be provided with shoes. Well, I de- 
clare ! The carpet is full of paint spots again This 
fellow is getting to be a perfect nuisance, and I do believe 
he never pays any rent, either. I wonder why misses 
keeps him. {Enter 3frs. Collins and Tohin.) Oh, Mrs. 
Collins, just look at all those paint spots on the carpet. 

Mrs. Collins. You need not mind them, Bridget, the 
carpet is spoiled anyway. Have you the key to this door? 

Bridget. Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. Collins. Let me have it (opening the door.) Old 
man, you can sleep in this room for awhile. 

Tohin. Thank you, Mrs. Collins. 

Mrs. Collins. Bridget, I have engaged this old man to 
do some cleaning around the house. He is in poor cir- 
cumstances just now, and, as I have known him for a 
long time, I wish to give him a little assistence until he 
finds something better to do. He can go to work right 
here. Have you ever cleaned any windows before, old 
man ? 

Tohin. I am quite an expert in cleaning windows. 

Mrs. Collins. Let him have a few towels and a sponge, 
Bridg't. 

Bridget. There is a sponge on the wash-stand, and 
towels he will find in the bureau. [Aside.] I wonder if 
she is going to establish a private poor-house or a hos- 
pital. {Exit.] 

Tohin. ^ Now, Mrs. Collins, you will greatly oblige me 
by keeping that servant of yours in perfect ignorance 
about my being the young fellow's uncle. I have no 
doubt she would spoil my game. Old friends, as we are, 
I can expect a little assistance in what I may call a 

Mrs. Collins. Whim. 

Tohin. Whim or freak, anything you like, but let me 
assure you that I am determined to liave nothing to do 
with the young fellow if I find him a vulgar good-for- 



9 

nothing scamp. Nothing will give me so good an oppor- 
tunity to study his character as in tlie role of your 
servant. It will enable me to form a just estimate of his 
good and bad qualities, and I run no risk of being de- 
ceived by an assumed deportment. 

Mrs Collins. If I had no feelings of kindness toward 
a relative of mine I would not have sent for him. 

Tobin. You misunderstand me, Mrs. Collins. If I 
find him worthy I will be a true friend to him. 

Mrs. Collins It is going on ten weeks since he landed 
in a strange country, where he had no acquaintance 
with a single soul. What is more natural than that he 
should expect his uncle, who sent for him, to bid him 
welcome when he put his foot ashore. He was greatly 
disappointed. 

Tobin. Did he tell you so? 

Mrs. Collins. No, but I could see that, when week 
after week passed without any tidings from you, he be- 
came restless, and if it had not been for a young man, 
who is rooming with me, and whose acquaintance he 
made, he would have quitted the house long ago. 

Tobin. I will admit that I should have come a little 
sooner, but my business affairs detained me longer than 
I expected; besides, I was always of the oj>inion that one 
of the most useful lessons a young man should learn is to 
wait. 

Mrs. Collins. I think I hear some one coming up stairs. 
Your must take off your coat now and go to work, Mr. 
Tobin, if you insist on playing the fool. [E.vit.'] 

Tobin. Playing the fool. It is no use to argue with 
women on a subject like this. With them all is wrong 
if one does not rush up at once to hug and kiss, [looking at 
the picture on the easel.) Not badly done as far as I can 
judge. Most natural. The whole scene carries such an 
atmosphere of quiet and peace. The grown-up people 
coming out of church, with solemn mien and lingering 
steps; the little children, staring at them, open-mouthed, 
as they pass. I almost fancy I hear the church bell ring- 
ing in my ear. 

Ente) George Hillberth. 

George. Helloa, old man, what are we doing here ? 

Tobin. Oh, I beg your pardon. The landlady has en- 
gaged me to clean those windows. I am a poor man and 
such as me must work at something to exist. I won't 
disturb you, I hope ? 

George. Not at all, old man. I expected to find 
here a friend of mine. How long have you been here ? 



10 

I'ohin. About ten minutes. 

George. Did a young man leave while you were here? 

Tohin. I have seen no young man. 

George. I wonder what has become of Fred. I have 
not seen him for a week. He must be running after a 
new petticoat I never saw such a fellow for falling in 
love. A perfect genius in that respect. He won't die a 
bachelor, that's certain. (Enter Fred Tohin.) Speak of 
tiie Devil and he will appear. Where have you been this 
last week ? 

Fred. In heaven, in paradise. I am in love, George. 

George. I thought you had drowned yourself. 

Fred. So I have drowned my soul in the tenderest 
pair of eyes beneath heaven. The prettiest little creature 
you ever saw, A neat little foot, a pleasing shape, light 
brown hair. 

George. What! another red-headed girl? I warrant 
her father is a brick-layer. 

Fred. George, who is that old man ? 

George. A poor old fellow whom the landlady engaged 
to do chores around the house for little or nothing, 

Fred. ■ He has fallen asleep ; the easiest way to earn 
little or nothing. 

George, How and where did you meet this new flame? 

Fred. In the simplest way possible, A week ago yes- 
terday, while I was walking along a certain street, this 
sweet creature happened to come out of a store. Her 
nimble little feet first attracted my attention, and as I had 
nothing particular to do, I followed her for nearly an 
hour. Suddenly she stopped in front of a pleasant little 
cottage, surrounded on all sides by a well-kept garden. 
As both her hands were engaged in holding y)ackages, I 
opened the gate for her. Our eyes met, and the sweet 
mischief was done. 

George. And who is she? 

Fred. A sign nailed on the door informed every passer 
by that Peter Fairweather followed the occupation of a — 

George. Bricklayer. 

Fred. Tailor, and is ready at any time to make a suit 
for twenty dollars and upwards. After I had seen her 
disappear, I went home with the intention of doing 
some work, but somehow or other something was wrong. 
Those soulful eyes had bewitched my mind so completely 
that I could not see nor think of anything else. 

George. How long do you think the fever will last ? 

Fred. I am in for flesh and blood, and, by George, if 



11 

our first baby turns out to be a boy, his name shall be 
George. 

George, Why, is it as desperate as that ? 

Fred, If this planet did not contain any women I 
would drown myself. 

George. It would hardly be worth while to live. 

Fred. Her father likes me well, and I have passed the 
larger part of the week in their house. In the current of 
love our souls have become so entangled that it will be 
impossible to separate them again. Next week the 
United Tailors hold a pic-nic at Elmwood Park, and on 
that occasion I intend to propose, but, George, I have to 
ask you for a favor. 

George. Is there a thorn to the rose? 

Fred. There is, and a mighty sharp and ugly one, too. 

George. Stepmother? 

Fred. No, a sour-faced, shrill-voiced, she-devil of an 
aunt. 

George. Do you wish me to marry her? 

Fred, Heaven forbid, but you would greatly oblige 
me if you could manage to draw her aunt, on our pic-nic 
day, out of the way to a place where she can do no harm. 
She has such a spiteful disposition that she cannot see 
my poor girl enjoying the most innocent pleasure. Her 
evil tongue is always ready to turn every sweetness into 
gall. 

George. I fail to see how I could serve you, 

Fred. Oh, that is simple enough. During the com- 
ing week send her three or four little notes, in which you 
confess that you are smitten with her charms. 

George, But I never saw her, 

Fred. Here we are, my boy. This is her picture. 
Praise her hair, or her nose, or her bustle; I don't care 
which, as long as you succeed in making an engagement 
with her to meet you somewhere, I will write her ad- 
dress on the back : Miss Mathilda Splinter, 2944 Milk 
Avenue. 

George. Have you ever heard of such a thing as a suit 
for breach of promise ? 

Fred, Breach of promise be hanged. Sure you ain't 
fool enough to sign your own name, I could do the wait- 
ing myself if she didn't know my handwriting by this 
time. Neither will it be necessary to go and meet her at 
the appointed place. Let her wait. She is used to wait- 
ing: she has been waiting this forty years. Will you 
do it ? 



12 

George, Well, I suppose I must. 

Fred. Come, let's go across the street and have a glass 
of wine. 

George, How the old man snores. 

Fred, Wake up, old chap. 

Tohin, What is it ? 

Fred. Save your snores, they are worth ten cents a 
dozen. 

Tohin. To whom ? 

Fred. To a man with the consumption; they will keei> 
him awake. 

Tohin. Could you recommend me a few costumers? 

Fred. I have no consumptive friends. 

Tohin. Perhaps an uncle, 

Fred. So I have, but he is s tough customer. 

Tohin. Tough, hey? 

Fred. He is out of jail for stealing a mule, but by 
right and law he ought to be inside of it. 

Tohin. [Aside,] What an impudent liar. [Aloud'] 
Of course, you saw him stealing the mule ? 

Fred. I did not. 

Tohin. Then, how did it come to your knowledge that 
he did such a thing? 

Fred, Six years ago, after my poor father had been 
buried, I opened his bureau, where he kept his letters. 
Among them I found a good many from his brother, who 
had emigrated to California. There was one in which 
my uncle describes an incident which he witnessed while 
traveling through the country. Coming one morning to 
a creek, where usually from twenty to thirty miners 
were engaged in washing gravel, he found thetn all 
gathered on one spot, and, in the midst of them, he ob- 
served a lean-looking fellow, with his hands tied behind 
his back, sitting on a mule. He soon learned that a mur- 
der had been committed the night before. This fellow 
had frequently quarreled wiih the murdered man about 
a claim, and was generally known as a dangerous man. 
When the miners had agreed to hang him, they set 
themselves in motion for a suitable place. iMy uncle 
followed. When the spot had been reached, they took 
him from the mule and made preparations to elevate him. 
While this business was going on, my uncle observed the 
mule, kicking up his heels and enjoying his freedom. 
The miners were too busy with their hanging to pay any 
attention to the mule, so my uncle quietly sneaked up to 
him and took him in charge, and left camp with con- 
siderable haste. 



13 

Tobin. Ha! ha! ha! I think you will agree with me 
tliat, when tlie mule had lost his master, your uncle had 
as much right to the animal as any other man? 

Fred. As T am no lawyer, I will not argue the point, 
and tlie ca-e would have looked different if it had been a 
horse ; but a mule, that takes all the poetry out of the 
transaction. 

Tobin, Ha! ha! ha! {Exit.) 

Fred. George, that is my uncle. 

George. Is it possible? 

Fred. When I looked him squarely in the face, I 
thouglit my tather was silting in front of me. 

George. I can't see the object of his playing the spy. 

Fred. I can. At the time he sent for me, he was 
very sick. Now that he has recovered, he rei)ents this 
haste and fears that I will maneuvre him out of his 
money. After letting me wait for over two months, he 
now introduces himself in tliis sneaking manner to see if 
he can not find some excuse to get rid of me. He is 
hunting for weak points, you may be sure. 

George. You hit him pretty hard when you called him 
a mule thief. 

Fred. I don't intend to flatter him ; that would only 
muke him more suspicious. Under this disguise he 
shall swallow a few pills that will convince him that I 
am not as anxious to see him as he thinks. [Exeunt.) 

[Enter Mrs. Collins, looking about.) 

Mrs. Collins. They have gone down stairs 

[Enter Tobin and Miss Roland.) 

Miss Roland. I happened to pass here, and knowing 
that you stop with Mrs. Collins whenever you are in town, 
1 took the liberty to call. 

Tobin. I am glad you have not passed by without see- 
ing me. 

Miss Roland. Is this room occupied by your nephew? 

Tobin. It is. By the way, Mrs. Collins, who is that 
young man I saw here? 

Mrs. Collins. He is one of my boarders, an architect, 
and a very pleasant and well behaved young man. He 
came down stairs one morning while I w'as dusting this 
room and seeing the easel, he inquired if I had an artist 
for a boarder. While we were talking, in came your 
nephew. I introduced theni to each other, and since 
then the two have been fast friends. 

Miss Roland. Why, this is a magnificent piece of 
work. Your nephew is a master in free hand drawing ; 
every detail is worked out to such perfection. 



14 

Tohin. You are something of an artist vourself, Ger- 
tie ? 

Mhs Roland. Looking at a piece of work like this, 
convinces me that I learned just enough to appreciate the 
work of a true artist. 

Mrs. Collins. I hear them coming up stairs again. 

Miss Roland. What progress have you made in study- 
ing your nepht-w's character? 

Tobin. I have introduced myself as a poor old man 
who cleans windows for a living, and soon shall know if 
he is worth pushing. Will you do me the favor and re- 
tire to my room ? 

Miss Roland. I intend to see 5'our nephew before I 
leave the house. 

Tohin. Mrs. Collins will introduce you after awhile. 
Do not mention my name, or take any notice of me. He 
has not the slightest idea who I am. 

Mrs. Collins. Come, Miss Roland, quick. 

{Exeunt Mrs. Collins and Miss Roland. Enter George 
and Fred. 

Ered. After I am married I will go to work like a man. 
This business will never en-ible me to support a wife, so 
it will have to be thrown overboard. 

George. Your uncle might do something for you 

Fred. George, in future, do me the favor and not men- 
tion my uncle again. He is either a humbug, and glad 
to be able to pay for his own board and lodging, or else 
a miserable miser, who would shake to the very marrow 
of his bones every time he parted with a dollar, and 
would wrap up small donations in long sermons about 
economy. Thank God, I have manhood enough left in 
me to scorn assistance that is given grudgingly. 

George. Is it not singular that most of those old bach- 
elors have a screw loose somewhere? 

Fred. An old bachelor always reminds me of a leaf- 
less tree. There is such an atmosphere of desperation 
about its empty branches, as if they were waiting for 
some one tired of life, to come and hang himself ; even 
the winds seem to shake them more violently. The 
birds shun them, and refuse to build their nesis in a tree 
that has fallen out of harmony with nature. 

George. I shall follow your example shortly, Fred, 
and be more on the lookout for a fair maid, willing to be 
captured, 

(Enter Mud. jun.) 

Mud,jun. Have you seen anthing of a young lady, 
who went into this house about ten minutes ago? 



15 

Fred. We have not been favored by her, and can give 
you no information. 

Mud, jun. I give you fair warning not to meddle with 
her. My name is Mud. Good morning. (Exit.) 

George. You stupid ruffian; come back, and I will 
punch your head. 

Fred. Mr. Mud, it seems, is running after a mud-hen. 
George, I've got a capital idea. When you write those 
love letters to that she devil, sign them Mud, will you? 

George. If we only knew where the fellow lived. 

Fred. The city directory will tell us, perhaps. 

George. I wil see. However, before I forget the main 
object in coming to see you. I will ask you for those 
sketches. I saw Bowman on Monday last. 

Fred. What did he say ? 

George. He didn't believe there was anybody in town 
who could do the work. He intends to write to France 
and Germany for a first-class scene painter. 

Fred. Did you tell him that I worked for four years 
as scene painter at the Royal Theater in Dublin? 

George. I did ; but he seemea not to be very much 
impressed. He is one of those who think that what 
does not come from either London. Paris, or Berlin, is of 
no consequence. He is willing to pay four thousand 
dollars for a new drop curtain. So he told me, 

Fred. That would be a splendid opening for me. 

George. Let me have those sketches and I will see 
what I can do for you. 

Fred. {Opening a trunk.) Here they are, 

George. The Gypsy Camp ; this is a splendid one, 
the far-off mountains; that lazy, good-for-nothing, lying 
in the grass, the children playing with the dogs ; that 
young girl dreaming over the fire; how delightfiil. A 
painter who claims to be an artist ought, in my opinion, 
be somewhat of a poet. To be able to paint apples and 
carrots, does not make him one. He is a mere imitator. 
What have you got here ? 

Fred, A tombstone. 

George. A tombstone ? 

Fred. Don't laugh at me, George. When my uncle 
wrote me that most likely by the time I arrived here, he 
would have crossed the river Styx, I naturally became 
interested in tombstones. The day before I left Dublin 
1 paid a parting visit to an old friend of mine who keeps 
a marble yard. While I was talking to him, in rushed a 
young woman and told the stonecutter that she would 



16 

not be able to pay for the tombstone she had ordered, ^s 
her cousin had entirely forgotten lier in his will, and had 
divided liis property between the church and the orphan 
asylum. The stonecutter refused to return her the 
money she had given as a deposit, so I put my hand in 
my pocket, paid her, and the stone was mine. 

George. Let's lowk at the thing. Why, there is your 
uncle's name on it. 

Fred. Ttie stonecutter had not progressed so far to 
spoil it for my purpose. So I told him to hammer out 
my generous uncle's name. 

George. [Reading.) Here sleeps in peace James Pat- 
rick Tobin, born in Dublin, died in San Francisco, aged 
63 years ; with the angels is his soul. 

Fred. Do you think the pawnbroker would loan money 
on that thing? If one uncle does not deserve it, I am 
willing to let another uncle have it at cost price. 

[Enter Mrs. Collins and Miss Roland.) What's this? 
Hide the thing, George. 

Mrs. Collins. Mr. Tobin, a lady friend of mine would 
very much like to see your picture. I hope we don't in- 
trude. 

Miss Roland. I beg your pardon, gentlemen, if in 
seeking to gratify my curiosity, I should cause annoy- 
ance. 

Fred. [Aside.] Hide that damned thing, George. 

George. [Aside.] I have thrown my overcoat over it. 

Fred. We feel highly honored. 

{Miss Roland advances, Fred steps back and falls over 
the tombstone.) [Curtain down.] 

ACT III. 

SCENE I. — A Tailor Shop. Enter Fred, climbimg 
through a window. 
Fred. (Pulling out his watch.) Half-past four. To- 
night I will have a bride; and if all goes well, within a 
week, a wife. It is true, my prospects are not over- 
bright, and ugly care, that gloomy looking witch, what 
frightful words she is hissing in my ear — want, sickness, 
misery. This is her chair; her little foot brings life 
into this machine, whose rattling noise mingles with her 
dreams. A man should look before he leaps— so does 
the proverb say ; but he who looked never was in love. 
There is some one stirring up stairs; who can it be? 
Perhaps ray love. Here she has grown up, not like a 
petted flower exposed for show in a rich man's garden; 
but like a humble thing which one does sometimes find 



17 

blooming in solitude where only the hare and quail have 
undisputed sway. (Enter Fairweather.) Good morn- 
ing, Mr. Fairweather. 

Fairweather. Good morning, my boy. 

Fred. What a glorious morning. I couldn't sleep, 
so 

Fairweather. So you could do nothing better than walk 
three miles and jump through my window? 

Fred. Did you hear me? 

Fairweather. No; but Annie did. She came on tip- 
toe on my bed, and said, papa, a burglar has got into the 
house, through tlie window , and then she laughed and 
kissf d me. 

Fred. Did she know it was I ? 

Fairweather. Why, she is up every morning at sun- 
rise, for she knows that by that time a young fool is 
standing on the opposite side of the street, staring at her 
window. 

Fred. Strange that I am so restless everywhere else 
except in this neighborhood (after a pause). What do 
you think of me, Mr. Fairweather, as a son-in-law? 

Fairweather. You know that I am not displeased with 
you, my boy ; otherwise I would have forbidden you to 
come here long ago- 

Fred. To-day I intend to ask Annie to be niy wife; 
but if you do not approve of it now, I will wait until I 
have won your esteem and confidence. I am a stranger 
in this land, and fourteen days ago you were not aware 
that such a person as Fred Tobin was in existence. It 
is but reasonable that you should wish to know me thor- 
oughly before you trust me with your only daughter. 

Fairweather. My boy, am fifty-five years of age, andl 
assure you that I "have not been running around this 
world all this time without discovering that when I see 
and speak with a man, I know whether I have a man, a 
fool or a knave in front of me. To fall in love is nature's 
law, and your frank and open nature has secured you 
my esteem long ago. 

'Fred. There is one thing more I wish to tell you. I 
have often, to you and Annie, spoken of my wealth}' uncle. 
I have made up my mind to throw him overboard, of 
course, figuratively speaking. 

Fairweather. Have you seen him ? 

Fred. I have. He "has introduced himself into the 
house where I stop, as an old servant, doing odd jobs 
around the house and occupies the room next to mine. 
The likeness between him and my father is so great that 



18 

I knew him at once, as soon as I had a good look at him. 
After letting me wait for over two months without send- 
ing )ne a few words or a message, he now comes, in this 
underhanded manner, to study me. 

Fair weather. He is an old bachelor, and like most of 
them a little excentric, I suppose. 

Fred. Excentric, you may call it; I think it's avarice. 
He fears I may prove too expensive for his taste. He is 
seeking now for some excuse to shake me off. 

Fainveafher. I would advise you to be quiet, have pa- 
tience, and let him play his game. He may have some 
reasons for acting thus. 

Fred. I shall lake no notice of him. 

Fainveather. He may not prove so selfish as you 
think him to be. 

Fred. At any rate, I will stand on my own legs. I 
am young and strong, and I am eager for a fray with the 
cold world. 

Fairweather. That is spoken like a man. A rich 
man's favors are uncertain, and like the wind ; and 
know, my boy, that 1 am not so poor as you may think. 
This house is mine and 1 am not unknown in the bank ; 
so there is no need to paint the horizon with ink. {Enter 
Annie.) 

Annie. O, papa, good morning, sir. 

Fred. Now, Annie, this is not fair ; come, shake 
hands, and say good morning. 

Annie. Good morning, Fred, you dear old pet. 

Fred. Anything more? 

Annie. I won't tell you now. Papa, aunt is stirring 
about. 

Fairweather. Has she seen you ? 

Annie. O, no ; but I heard her opening the window. 

Fairweather. I think you two had better go now, and 
I will follow as soon as I can. But you have had no 
breakfast. 

Fred. It shall give me immense pleasure if you 
allow me to take Annie to a neat little restaurant where 
I am well acquainted, and where I expect to meet a 
friend. The only trouble is, I see no car lunning at 
such an early hour. 

Annie. I would sooner walk than ride. 

Fairweather. She is used to walking. There is not a 
man in a dozen who will outwalk her. I shall be at the 
ferry at nine, if not sooner. 

Fred. You will find us waiting. 



19 

Annie. Good bye, dear old papa. 

Fairweather. Good bye, my child. _ 

Annie. Doa't forget the lunch basket, papa; it s be- 
hmdthe kitchen door. [Exeunt Fred and Annie.) 

Fairweather. I wish the young fellow had learned my 
trade. A tailor is always sure of his bread and butter. 
Well, who knows what is best? If he cannot Bell his 
pictures I mis^ht open a little store and put him there as 
salesman. [Enter Tobin.) 

ToUn. Good morning. 

Fairweather. Good morning, sir. Anything 1 can do 
for you? , ^, , 

Tohin. Do you know a young man by the name ot 
Fred Tobin ? 

Fairweather. I do. Please take a seat. 

Tohin. Thank you. He visits you sometimes, I pre- 



sume 



Fairweather. Yes, frequently. _ , . , 

Tobin. Is there any probability of meeting him here 
this morning? [Aside.] I know there is not, for I saw 
him going out. ^ u i ;*. • 

Fairweather. Less than five minutes ago he lett m 
company with my daughter. 

Tohin. With your daughter ? the rogue. 

Fairweather. Rogue? What do you mean? 

Tohin. Don't be alarmed; your daughter is perfectly 
safe. You seem to be very intimate with him. Did he 
ever speak to you about his uncle ? 

Fairweather. He has, indeed. Only this morning he 
told me that he intended to throw him overboard. 

Tohin. What, throw me overboard, the villain? 

Fairweather. Of course, he meant in— in a— in a 

Tohin. Metaphorical sense, I suppose. Has he told 
you why? I am his uncle. 

Fairweather. You, sir? 

Tohin. I hope you have no objection to my being that 
rogue's uncle. Throw me overboard, and does not know 
either whether I can swim or not. What reason did he 
give ? 

Fairweather. The reason he gave may not be pleas- 
ant to your ear, and may offend you. 

Tohin. Perhaps I deserve to be offended. 

Fairweather. He imagines that you repent for hav- 
ing sent for him. 

Tohin. That is not true, indeed. 

Fairweather. It is two months since he landed, and, of 
course, is disappointed in noi meeting you. Neither did 



20 

you write and let him know where you could be found, 

Tolnn. My reason for acting thus was to cool his ex- 
pectations down a little. 

FairweaUier. You have succeeded in that respect, I 
can assure you. 

Tobin. If I had rushed up to him the moment he 
landed, embraced him, fed him and made things snug all 
round, that would have suited him much better, but by 
doing so, I would have spoiled the opportunity to find 
out if he is worthy of any assistance. You know very 
well, Mr. Fairweather, that to some men assistance is a 
deadly poison ; it kills their ambition and their energy, 
and like an overloaded vessel, they sink and sink into 
slothful laziness. By making him wait, the hope of an 
idle life (if he ever entertained it) has by this time most 
likely evaporated, and made him understand that his 
own exertions must carry him along. 

Fairu'eathei: I see your object now and I approve it. 

Tobin. By telling you that he was going to throw me 
overboard, indicates that the time has arrived when I 
may venture to knock a few stones out of his way, espe- 
cially as he intends to marry your daughter. 

Fairweather. Who has informed you of this? 

Tobin. Ha! ha! ha! I have been i)layiiig a trick on 
him ; disguised myself as an old servant in the house of 
his landlady. Of course, she is in the plot. A few days 
ago he and another young man — whom by the way I very 
much esteem — w^ere talking over their affairs while I 
pretended to clean the windows. I heard every word 
they said, and so learned that my nephew fell in love 
with your pretty daughter. 

Fairweather. I hope the news did not displease you, 
sir. 

Tobin. To be candid, Mr. Fairweather, it did. A lady 
friend of mine — her husband formerly was my partner — 
has a daughter, as good and as virtuous as any girl that 
ever lived, and my fondest hope was to see my nephew 
fall in love with her. However, as it has happened oth- 
erwise, be assured that I shall be just as friendly to your 
daughter as if she never had been the cause of destroy- 
ing my little matrimonial scheme. 

Fairweather. We tailors hpld a picnic to-day at Elm- 
wood Park. It would give me much pleasure to see you 
present. 

Tobin. Can my nephew's friend be not there? 

Fairweather. I think so. 



21 

Tohin. I shall be the! e. 

Fairweather. Your nephew intends on this occasion 
to propose to my girl. 

Tohin. Here is a letter and a key. Please hand them 
over to ray nephew as soon you hear from your daughter 
that she is engaged; but understand, should, for some 
cause, this engagement not take place, the letter and the 
key mu!^t be returned to me. 

Fair weather. You may rely I shall do exactly as you 
wish. 

Tohin. At Elm wood Patk, you say? 

Fairweather. Yes, sir. 

Tohin. Good morning. 

Fairweather. Good day, sir. {Exit Tobin.) Hot 
headed youth will quickly lose its temper, and rashly 
grasp at hastily formed conclusions. 

(Re-enter ToBi^.) 

Tohin, You may tell them that I will send them the 
deed of the property fourteen days after their first baby 
is born. 

Fairweather. I will, sir. {^'.nrToBiisr. ) I was pretty 
certain that he had a reason for delaying to make him- 
self known. A man who has been so successful in busi- 
ness is not very likely to undertake such a step without 
mature deliberation. [Re-enter Tobin.) 

Tohin. There is one thing more I wish to mention. 
Please tell my nephew to take good care of my tomb- 
stone when my soul is with the angels. {Exit Tobin.) 

Fairweather. Tombstones! angels! What is he talk- 
ing about? {Enter Miss Splintek.) 

Miss Splinter. What is the meaning of this? I found 
it hidden behind the kitchen door. 

Fairweather. Put the basket where you found it. I 
want it to be there. 

Miss Splinter. Where is Annie? 

Fairweather. I gave her permission to take a walk. 

Miss Splinter. Have you lost your senses, to allow her 
to walk the streets at five o'clock in the morning? You 
are unfit to bring up my sister's child. 

Fairweather. Now, listen. Annie is soon going to be 
married, and I have come to the conclusion that it is 
about time now to get rid of you. If I have submitted to 
your insults and insinuations, that is no reason why my 
son-in-law should. 

Miss Splinter. Son-in-law ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! A penni- 
less loafer, who is too lazy to earn his own board. Pray, 
how is he going to support his wife ? 



22 

Fairweather. That does not concern you. 

Miss Splinter. Does not concern nie ? 

Fainreather. No; you are nothing but a pervant in 
my house. I have always paid you your montlily wa^es, 
and owe you nothing. I will not submit to your inter- 
ference in my affairs any longer, and I want you to pack 
up your things and walk. 

Miss SpUnter. I am here in my poor sister's place, 
and I dare you to put me out. 

Fairweather. I will see if the law does not protect me 
against a shrew like you. 

Miss Splinter. I know before hand that my poor sister 
would not live long, when she married such a lousy tai- 
lor. 

Fairweather. That is even more than you could catch. 

Miss Splinter. You lie. I could get married to-mor- 
row if I wanted to. Here are the letters to prove it ; and 
you know that I refused several offers for the love of my 
dear sister 

Fairweather. Poor, dear sister. You two had a hair- 
pulling match most every dav in the week. 

Miss Splinter. I say you lie. 

Fairweather. The sight of you was poison to her (Miss 
Splinter takes the lunch basket and tries to strike Fair- 
weather with it; the bottom drops out, and the contents 
fly all over the stage.) [Curtain down.] 

SCENE II. — [A poorly furnished room, and one adjoin- 
ing the latter is not visible on the stage.] 

(Enter Mud sen. andMuDJiui.) 

Mud, sen. I tell you I am tired of this, and won't 
stand it any longer. You can go to work and earn your 
own living. 

Mud, jiui. Now, old man, don't get excited. 

Mud, sen. Damn your soul, havn't I supported you 
long enough? you lazy, good-for-nothing dude. 

Mud,jun. What's the matter with your bowels; have 
you got the colic ? 

Mud, sen. Not a cent you will ever get from me, 
again. 

Mud, jun. You have said that before. 

Mud, sen. Six months ago, when you came back 
from the country, dead broke, I had you fitted up and 
dressed up like a prince. Then I hunted up a pretty 
young lady with a big fortune for you, and you big igno- 
ramus, have in all that time no more succeeded in 
winning her heart than that table. 



23 

Mud,jun. Haven't I been running after her, day and 
nio;ht, bowed and scraped to that stuck-up thing? 

Mud, sen. When I was a young fellow like you, why, 
there wasn't a two-legged woman in the whole neighbor- 
hood who w^ould not liave danced when I snapped my 
fingers. Push her to the wall. Women admire a bold 
man. They are like lemons, and want to be squeezed. 

Mudjjun. Last week I nearly got squeezed — with, a 
pitchfork. 

Mud, sen. You made an ass of yourself by going up 
in that tree. If I had been in such a situation, I would 
have faced them with a smile, made a neat little speech, 
or what is still better, a rhyme, and carried the day. 

Mild, jun. Wliistle when you see the geese fly. That's 
the time the goose hangs high. 

Afud, sen. You ought to have seen me courting the 
girls. 

Mud, jun. I am glad that I didn't. 

Mud, sen.. Why, at one time I had as many as seven 
sweethearts; the cream of the village, too. 

Mud, jun. Cheese it, old boy ; cheese it. 

Mud, sen. Tliere was Molly Pickly; her father was a 
plumber. 

Mud, jun. He didn't care to increase his stock of old 
gas pipes. 

Mud, sen. Then, there was Susan Flotz; her father 
had a pickle factory and made sourkraut. 

Mud, jun-. Why, old blossom, there was a chance to 
bloom. 

Afud, sen. I didn't mind the pickles, but sourkraut 
was too much for me. 

Mud, jun. (Singing :) 

Mary had a little flea, 
That flea he was a sucker ; 
He didn't care for elixir, 
He stuck to Mary Tucker. 

{Enter Bob Bun.) 

Bun. Jim, that girl of yours went to a picnic this 
morning. I followed her down to the ferry, and do you 
know the latest news ? Jack got licked 

Mud, sen. Hurrah! for John. 

Bun. It's on every bulletin board in the city. 

Mud, sen. Three cheers for John, I say. 

Mud, jun. Now, old man, didn't I tell you to put your 
money on John ? 

Bun. He is a great man. He drew over ten thousand 
people from all parts of the country to see the fight. I'll 



24 

bet he made a fortune. Why. Jim, if I had i^uch a 
frame as you, I would try the' business mytelf. This 
fitrht will make John the most popular man in the conn- 
try. There is not a boy breathing who doesn't admire 
him. 

Mud^ sen. Here, Bob, go and get us a bottle of some- 
thing good; you can keep the change. 

Bun. I will be back in a minute. (Exit.) 
Mud, jun. Old man, do ycu think Bob has got any 
sense? 

M\id, sen. My boy, I am astonished that I didn't catch 
that idea long ago. 

Mud, jun. I know I am a tolerable good boxer, and 
but few boys will dare to stand in front of me. 

Mud, sen. You h.ave my biesHin*'', my boy. I knew 
there was something hidden in you; let it come out by 
all means. Hit as hard as you can, and bring the proud 
name of Mud to everlasting glory. 

Mud, jun. Of course, I must have a trainer. [Re-enter 
Bun.) 

Mad, sen. Bob is the verv man you want. He trained 
McBluffandO'Trim. 
Bun. What's up now? 

Mud, jun. Order me some cards, Bob: Jim Mud, 
pugilist. 

Bun. Jim, it has taken you a long time to come to 
your senses. 

Mud jun. Do you really think I have brains enough 
to become an artist in the profession ? 

Bun. What has got into you now? It don't require 
any brains ; all you want is a big fist, a thick skull, and 
be a little quick. 

Mud, sen. My boy, thank me. I have furnished you 
with all. Get the gloves. Bob, while I open the bottle. 
I want to see what my boy can do. (Bun goes into the 
next room, and returns with two pair of fighting gloves. 
They spar, and Mud, jun. is chasing Bun all over the 
room.) 

Mud, sen. Hit him, my boy ; knock him out. Well 
done. (All three disappear into the next room.) 
Enter Miss Splinter. 
Miss Splinter (reading a piece of paper). That's all the 
mud I can find in the city directory. William Mud, fruit 
peddler and game seller. Jim Mud, same address. 
Don't say what occupation. I wonder which of the two 
is in love with me? Well, I think I am game enough 
for any peddler. (Mud, senior, Mud, junior, and Bun 



25 

re-appear from the next room, still sparring. Bun dodgei? 
aside, and Mud, junior, stops in front of Miss Splinter. 
They stare at each other.) 

Miss Splinter. Some one in this house is in love with 
me, and wrote me love letters. Who is it? 

Sfud, jun. It isn't me, I am sure. 

Bun. . I plead not guilty to the cliarge. 

Mud, sen. Boys, run for your life. She is one of my 
old sweethearts, and means business. (All disappear 
except Miss Splinter.) [Curtain down.] 

ACT IV. 

Scene.— A bench, surrounded by trees in a park. 
Enter Mud, jun., and Bun. 

Mud, jun. I tell you, I won't stand this. I'll fight. 
If it hadn't been for the girl I would have knocked him 
down on the spot. 

Bun. He has too many friends here, and we two are 
alone. 

Mud, jun. Do you think I will fight him in the danc- 
ing hall, with the music playing to attract his friends? 
Write him a note, and invite him to come behind the 
barn. No one will interrupt us there. My blood is up, 
and I will fight. 

5{Ui (pulling out a book). What shall I write ? Dear 
Sir — 

Mud, jun. Dear sir be damned ! 

Bun. I damned dear sir by scratching him. 

Mud, jun. I hope he will come up to the scratch. 

Bun. How will this do? Sir: As you have had the 
impudence to establish yourself as a protector over a lady 
whom I have courted for the last six months, with the 
view of making her my wife, I send you this note as an 
invitation to come behind the barn for a few minutes to 
settle our dispute. 

Jim Mud. 

P. S. — If you have courage enough in your composi- 
tion to oblige me, you can find the barn m the northeast 
corner of this park. a 

Mud, jun. She wouldn't look at me, and at that mon- 
key she is smiling all the time. See ! 

Bun, Do you approve of what I wrote? 

Mud, jun. You said nothing about fighting. 

Bun. But I insinuated as much. 

Mud, jun. Eat your insinuations, and die. Write 
what I tell you. 



26 

Bun. Go ahead, my lad. 

Mud, jun. I will fight any pig-headed loafer who dares 
to meddle with a woman 1 have an eye on. Come behind 
the barn, in the northeast corner of this park, and I will 
do you up in about ten seconds. 

Jim Mud, Pugilist. 

Bun, All down. • 

Mud, jun. Did you put down pugilist? 

Bun. I did. 

Mud, Jan. Then go and hand it to him. 

Bun. Shall I find you behind the barn? 

Mud, jun. Why, of course. {Exeunt in different 
directions.) 

{Enter Fred and Annie.) 

Fred. Look, sweet Annie, what a charming retreat; 
let us sit down here. Has the dance fatigued you? 

Annie. Not in the least. I believe I could dance all 
day, and not feel a bit tired. 

Fred. I hope nobody will disturb us here for the next 
five hours. I will tell you something of great impor- 
tance. 

Annie. Will it take five hours to tell it? 

Fred. No, dearest Annie, only five minutes. 

Annie. Is it something dreadful? 

Fred. 0, awful ! 

Annie. Make a short story long, and I wmQ forgive you. 

Fred. Well, then: One fine morning, about fourteen 
days ago, while I was walking leisurely along a certain 
street, I happened to notice two little feet coming out of 
a store. When I raised my eyes to see to whom they 
belonged, I beheld the prettiest little woman I had ever 
seen. Her arms were loaded down with packages, and 
my first impulse was to relieve her of her burden. How- 
ever, as I was a perfect stranger to her, I feared the offer- 
ing of assistance might offend her, and all I could do was 
to follow and admire the graceful wav with which she 
moved along. Her light brown hair flourished in such 
profusion that her hat seemed unable to hold it all down 
over her shoulders, I could just see, peeping out, the 
pinkiest litte ear imaginable. After nearly an hour's 
walk, she suddenly stopped in front of a gate, which had 
to be opened before any one could get admittance to a 
neat looking cottage. When I saw that she intended to 
relieve one arm by heaping the packages it held upon the 
other, I stepped quickly forward and opened the gate for 
her. She paid me for my trouble with a look and 



smile which Tshall not forget as lung as I live. When 1 
arrived home again I tried to do some work on my pic- 
ture, but somehow I could see nothing but those large 
brown eyes, the sweet smile and the blushing face of a 
young girl. As progress on my picture was an impossi- 
bility, with this lovely apparition' floating in my mind, I 
put my hat and coat on again, and followed the same 
street whicli I had walked in the morning. The cottage 
was soon reached, and I noticed what I had not noticed 
before, that it held a sign with this name painted on it: 
"John Fairweather, Tailor." I walked up and down 
the street for quite awhile, in the hope of seeing that 
blushing face once more, when I saw a nice old gentle- 
man coming out of the cottage, and began to dig about 
the garden. I boldly stepped up to him, and introduced 
myself, and told him exactly what had happened in the 
morning. He listened patiently until I had finished, and 
then said kindly that his daughter had told him about 
some one who had followed her all the way from the 
store to the shop, and had opened the gate for her. He 
thanked me for doing this little kindness to his child, and 
invited me whenever I happened to pass to drop in and 
see him. I have made frequent use of this privilege, and 
the feeling I have for the old man's daughter has grown 
and grown until I am madly in love with her. (After a 
little pause.) Could you love me a little, Annie? 

Annie. I have been stricken with the same complaint, 
and would not be cured for all the world, but would 
sooner die. 

Fred. My aim shall be to make your life as bright 
and cloudless as this very day. 

Amiie. Your love shall be ray sun. 

Fred. I have bought a ring, if it only could be found. 

Annie. You have not lost it? 

Fred. See if you can find it in one of my vest pockets. 

Annie. Eureka! 

Fred. [Claspes her in his arms and kisses her] My 
sweet little wife, 

Annie. O! we will be so happy, won't we Fred? 

Fred. As happy as a pair of fools can possibly be. 
Now let us see if we can't find papa. 

Annie. He will be so pleased ; 1 know he will. 

Fred. Then let us hurry, and not let him wait. 

[Exeunt.] 

[Enter George, Hilbreth, Tobin and Miss Roland.] 

Oeorge. You need not be alarmed on my account. I 
do not fear him. 



28 

Miss Roland. But if you had seen with what a hateful 
expression he looked at you while he passed us just now. 
you should be careful. 

George. How grateful I would be if he would only 
give me an opportunity to clear you of this low ruffian. 
Mr. Tobin has told me how he has annoyed you beyond 
endurance. 

Tohin. There is only one remedy, Gertie ; you must 
get married, and have some one to protect you. 

Miss Roland. My mother has often spoken in the 
same strain, but, as yet, no man worthy of that name 
has ever approached me who seemed to have that end 
in view. 

Tohin. You and your mother live like two hermits. 
You should mix more with young people, and go in 
society. 

Miss Roland. My mother has a very poor opinion of 
societies. She thinks they are too often assemblages of 
people who seem to gather for no other purpose but 
to make cutting remarks about each other; of course, 
behind your back. Does this coincide with your obser- 
vations, Mr. Hillberth ? 

George. Society has taken very little notice of me so 
far, Miss Roland. 

Miss Roland. How is it that I am not introduced to 
your Nephew, Mr. Tobin? 

Tobin. Have you seen anything of Fred, Mr. Hill- 
berth ? 

George. Not long ago I saw him sitting here on this 
bench, but he seemed so busy in making love that I did 
not wish to disturb him. 

Tohin. There is a specimen of a red hot lover for you, 
Gertie. Fourteen days ago my precious nephew met a 
red headed girl on the street, he followed her right up 
where she lived, told her father that he loved her, and 
to-day is going to propose. 

Miss Roland. That must be Dublin style. 

Tobin. Just like his father, who, when hardly twenty- 
four years old, married a school master's daughter. 
Love affairs are very well, but only too often they turn 
out misery affairs. Poverty is a rock that even the 
strongest love fails to dissolve. And his father was so 
damned proud that he would not accept assistance when 
I could well afford it. Well, well, man is a queer com- 
position anyway, 

{Enter Fairweathkr.] 



29 

Have you seen anything of my nephew, Mr. Fair- 
weather ? 

Fairweather. I am just busy hunting; tor them. 
Tohin. Miss Roland, Mr. Fairweather, my nephew's 
future father-in-law. Mr. Fairweather, Miss Roland and 
Mr. 

George. Mr. Fairweather and I are not strangers. 

[Enter Btn, handing a note to George.] 

Bun. Here is a note for you, sir. 

George. Very well. 

Bun. Will you come? 

George. Certainly, my man. I hope you will excuse 
me for a few minutes. 

George [to Bun.1 Go and lead the w^ay. 

[Exit George and Bun.] 

Miss Roland. Is not that the fellow we saw with that 
ruffian ? What does it mean ? 

Tohin. It means that the scamp, whom he worsted in 
a wordy combat, is now seeking satisfaction in a fight. 

Miss Roland That must not happen. • 

Tohin. He is gone now. 

Miss Roland. O! Mr, Tobin, follow and stop them. 

Tohin. I will follow and see fairplay. Mr. Fairweather, 
will you kindlv look after the lady until I return? 

[E.rit.] 

Miss Roland. Do you know, sir, if ihere is a police- 
man in the park ? 

Fairweather. I do not think so. 

Miss Roland. They must not fight on my account. 

Fairweather. You need not be alarmed about that 
young man. It will take a pretty powerful fellow to do 
him any harm. I am a tailor, Miss, and know the ani- 
mal called man. 

[Enter Fred and Annie.] 

Annie. Papa, we have been looking for you all over 
the park. 

Fairweather. Fred, your friend has got into a little 
difficulty with a fellow who insulted this lady. I believe 
they are going to fight. See that all is fair. 

Fred. Where did they go to? 

Fairweather. Do you see your uncle in the distance ? 

Fred. I do. 

Fairweather. Follow him, and you can't miss them. 

[Exit Fred.] 

Annie. There won't be any shooting, papa, will there ? 

Fairweather. I hope not, child. Miss Roland, n\y 
daughter Annie. 



30 

Miss Roland. I am sorry of being the cause of separ- 
ating you from your future husband, Miss Annie. 

Annie. And I am glad if my Fred has a chance of do- 
ing a good turn to his friend. He well deserves it. Look, 
papa, what a beautiful ring. We are engaged. 

Fairweather, What! engaged, and without my con- 
sent? 

Annie. O, you dear, old papa, I knew you would be 
pleased. 

Fairweather. Talk about fathers ruling their daugh- 
ters ; that is all stuff and nonsense. She has ruled me 
ever since she was that high. 

Annie. You see. Miss Roland, what a good, dear, old 
papa I have made out of him. If it hadn't been for me 
he would have turned into an old, grunting, grumbling 
growler. Kiss me, papa. 

Fairweather. Before I forget it, child, Fred's uncle 
has given me this letter and this key to hand over to 
him, 

Annie. What's the key for? 

Fairweather. The letter will explain it, I suppose. 

Miss Roland. What is the meaning of that procession, 
Mr. Fairweather? 

Annie. They are coming this way. 

Fairweather. They carry some body on a plank, 

Armie. It is not Fred; I see him with his uncle. 

Miss Rolad. Neither is it Mr. Hillbv3rth. I see him 
walking in the rear with Mr. Tobin. How funny they 
all look. 

Annie. Who can it be ? 

Fairweather. The boys will tell us, {EnUr some boys; 
t hen four men, carrying Mud, jun., on a barn door ; then 
Fred, Tobin and George, arm in arm; Bun with a towel 
around his head, makes up the rear.) 

1st Boy, Make room, there, ladies ; here is a damaged 
prize fighter with a broken leg, 

2nd Boy. And a broken nose. 

Fairweather. Has he been fooling with a steam ham- 
mer? 

3rd Boy. He can't fight worth a cent. 

1st Boy. I could knock him out myself, 

2nd Boy. He ain't no good. I know his father. 

3rd Boy. What is his name? 

All. His name is Mud. (End.) 



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